


Help Me Keep the Pieces

by Psilent (HereThereBeFic)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e12 The Conscience of the King, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I don’t know if I’ll ever convince myself I didn’t deliberately let him take that shot."</em> Fallout from <strong>The Conscience of the King</strong>. Jim tells Bones about Tarsus IV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help Me Keep the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my computer since… forever. I am pretty sure it has been here since literally the dawn of time. I’m done working on it. It’s far from perfect or finished but I’ve lost all motivation for it and I’d rather post it as-is than not at all.
> 
> On tumblr [here](http://psilentasincjelli.tumblr.com/post/76718615024/fanfic-help-me-keep-the-pieces).
> 
>  **Warnings:** Hoo boy. **Deals heavily** **with** #disordered eating / #eating disorders, #starvation, #trauma recovery, #lost time. **There is** a #panic attack involving #flashbacks. **Talk of** #mass murder with theories involving #eugenics behind the selection of the targets. **Mentions of:** #suicide, #alcohol, #murder, #child abuse, #hospitals, #vomiting, #self harm.

It wasn’t until the tail end of his shift that it all started to unravel. He was a tightly wound coil, instinct wrapped around nerves wrapped around nausea, and with two hours left on the bridge he was clenching one fist to keep it from shaking.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten since breakfast did nothing to help. Panic gripped him, automatic and _old_ , and all he could think was _If something happens, if someone attacks, right here, right now, I’m a liability._

That was not acceptable. He had a job to do. A crew to serve.

He clenched his jaw and sat up straighter in his chair and concentrated his entire being on readings and reports and star configurations, and two hours later he gave command over to Spock and walked calmly to his quarters and couldn’t remember a single thing he’d done.

The easy thing to do would be to lie down and close his eyes and not think about the fact that Leighton was dead; that his own negligence had nearly gotten Riley killed; that Lenore—that a _nineteen-year-old_ girl’s best hope was realizing her father had been a twisted man who had raised her into a twisted mindset.

The easy thing to do would be to lie down and close his eyes and not think about the fact that his body was tricking him into thinking he wasn’t hungry.

He had a crew to serve.

He sat down at his desk and flipped the switch on the comms system. “Captain to sickbay.”

“McCoy here.”

“How’s Riley?”

“Still pretty shaken up, but he’ll be all right. Matson’s with him right now; he wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

“He’s still in good health?”

“I’ve cleared him for his next shift.”

“In that case, Doctor, I request your presence in my quarters at your earliest convenience, to discuss a matter of…”

“Captain?”

His mouth was dry, his breathing shallow, too fast. His vision was drifting out of focus.

“Jim?”

He shook his head sharply. “To discuss a matter that may have an adverse effect on the ship, Doctor.”

“…I’ll be there in a few minutes, Captain.”

“Acknowledged. Kirk out.”

While he waited, he stared down at his hands and fiddled with the edges of his sleeves and silently recited every regulation he could think of, and stopped himself every few seconds to check where he was and what he was doing. Losing time like he had on the bridge was not something he was willing to tolerate.

McCoy hit the buzzer on the other side of the door and Jim’s hand hovered briefly over the switch before he let him in.

The good doctor stood across the desk from him, arms folded. Jim couldn’t make himself look up.

“Doctor McCoy, I’m going to be frank.”

“All right.”

“What I’m about to tell you is confidential, in the strictest sense. It is not to be reported to anyone at Starfleet Command, it is not to be discussed with your medical staff, it is not to be recorded on any device you have the slightest intention of ever handing over to a third party. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

Jim let out a short breath. “All right. That’s out of the way. To be absolutely clear, then, Bones, I’m… not telling you this as a Captain to a CMO. I’m… asking for your help. As a friend. Sit down.”

With McCoy that much closer to eye level, it wasn’t such a fight to look at him. Jim took in the concern, the openness, the compassion, and his hands began shaking again. He shut his eyes briefly but didn’t turn away. “For the next few days, possibly a week, possibly longer—I’m not going to… eat. Of my own accord. I need you to… remind me.”

McCoy nodded, expression still easy. “I can do that.”

“I may also need you to—stop me.”

“All right.”

“Don’t _pander_ to me, Bones. If you’re _shocked_ , alarmed—say so.”

“I’m a trained medical professional and you’ve just experienced events that have almost certainly triggered memories of a _traumatic_ time in your life involving _food_ —now tell me, Jim, what _exactly_ is there to be shocked about?”

“…Yes, all right. I’m… sorry, Bones.”

Bones shook his head. “It’s fine. What else?”

Jim cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Riley. I assume you’ve assigned him some mandatory psychotherapy sessions.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t need them.”

“Jim, I can’t let you—”

“ _I_ — don’t _need_ them, Bones; I’ve _had_ them, do you understand? I’m not—this is an _isolated incident_.”

“Then it’ll be an _isolated_ round of psychiatric counseling, Jim, but you know I can’t just—”

“Bones. Please. It’ll only make it worse. I’ve gone through it all before, I’ve _talked_ through it all before, I’ve written it down, I’ve analyzed…” He shook his head. “Doing it all _again_ … won’t help. The sooner I can stop _thinking about it_ , the better.”

For a moment, he was sure McCoy was going press the issue, and he prepared to dig his heels in. But then the doctor heaved a sigh, and slumped forward to rest his elbows on the desk, and said, “All _right_ , Jim. But if your dietary habits aren’t back on track within two weeks—”

“Yes, fine, fine.” Jim waved him off. “That’s fine. I’ll be… perfectly all right, by then.”

“If you say so. Anything else?”

“No, that’s…”

He stopped, and stared down at his hands, and willed himself to remain calm. His heart was pounding in his throat. “I… suppose I… It couldn’t hurt to… to clue you in, a little, about…”

“Jim.” He glanced up. McCoy was frowning. “You know you don’t have to tell me anything unless you _want_ to.”

“I… I want to. Bones.” Jim leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. “I owe you that much.”

“You really don’t.”

“You’re my friend.”

“That doesn’t make it my business if you don’t want it to be.”

Jim felt his lips twitching in an involuntary smile. “Do you or don’t you want to know, Bones?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “It’s not _about_ me, Jim. If _you_ think it’ll be good for you, I wanna _know_. If you _want_ me to know, I _want_ to _know_. Just don’t tell me out of some misplaced sense of _obligation_. And don’t tell me hoping for a miracle. I’m a psychologist, Jim, but not the kind you need.”

“I’m not— _asking_ you to be. I’m asking you to… I’m…”

The room was spinning. He took a deep breath. “I’m falling apart, Bones,” he whispered. “I’m asking you to help me at least… keep all the pieces in one place.”

“Jim…”

He shut his eyes. “I need… This ship, this _crew_ , needs me, Bones. In one piece and ready for anything. A captain leaves their personal life behind when they enter the bridge. They stop being themselves and start being a leader. I can’t… I’m _not_. Right now, I am anything _but_. And…” His head was throbbing, his stomach churning. “And I need… help. To get back to that. And you…”

He opened his eyes, and made himself look back up. “Bones. I need _someone_. To—to be _here_. For a little while. And _you_ _are_ the _only_ person on this ship I trust with that, the only one I am _willing_ to…” Another deep breath. “I’m not a _captain_ right now, Bones,” he ground out between clenched teeth, and it hurt more than he’d thought it would to say. “And you’re… the only person I can _allow_ to… to see that.”

“All right, Jim.” McCoy’s voice was low. “You want me to listen, I can do that. You want me to talk, distract you, I can do that, too.”

“I haven’t eaten,” Jim said quietly, staring at the wall over McCoy’s shoulder. “And I won’t be able to. Tonight. It… It won’t stay down, if I do. I’ll probably tell you the same thing tomorrow morning. Make me eat then anyway.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He flicked his gaze from the wall back to his friend’s face and tried not to think about what he was saying. “I was thirteen. …I appreciate the professionalism, Doctor, but you sitting there passively is no better than if I’d decided to tell this story to my desk. React however you honestly feel like reacting.”

McCoy let out an explosive breath. “ _Jesus_ , Mary, and _Joseph_ , Jim, you were _thirteen_.”

“Kevin Riley was seven.”

“ _God_.”

“We met on the streets. He was begging for food, but…” Jim felt himself smiling again, wry amusement creeping into the memory, and he forced it all back, horrified.  “Of course—he wasn’t the only one. And nobody had anything to spare. The rich were hungry, the poor were already dead. And everyone else was starving. He was… I _remember_ being that age, Bones, I remember running, _playing_ , looking up and discovering the stars for the first time. He was so thin, so…” He trailed off, flashes of imagery landing like sharp jabs to the chest. Small boy in rags, bloodshot eyes behind long dirty hair, ribs visible where his shirt hung too low, legs shaking as he chased passers-by up and down the street, desperate for someone to acknowledge him.

Jim swallowed. “He could barely stand. And he was begging strangers for scraps because his father was ill. He didn’t understand. Everyone was ill. Scraps were meals. The first time I saw him I hadn’t eaten in two days. The next night my mother handed me a piece of bread for dinner, and I… There were hundreds of beggars on the streets, Bones, _hundreds_. But this little boy. He stuck in my head. I snuck out, I shared it with him. One piece of bread. I gave him the bigger half and he tore it in two and took the rest home to his parents.”

McCoy inhaled sharply. “My God, Jim, how did you…”

“Survive? I honestly don’t know. Nobody’s clothes fit, they hung off us like drapes. Fights broke out over nothing. Armed guards patrolled outside storefronts. People murdered their neighbors and raided their cupboards to feed their children.”

Jim’s breath caught. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes again.

“I saw Riley a few times after that, and then I… We were both in… in the crowd Kodos had gathered for sentencing.” He cleared his throat. “My parents were considered vital to the colony’s survival. I was not. And Riley’s entire family… He’d been separated from his parents, he was screaming, didn’t know where they were—I grabbed him and I… I ran. I don’t… know how we managed to get out. Not many did. My parents hid us both, but their rations weren’t enough to go around. Riley was nearly dead by the time the relief ships arrived, a few days later. They took him to live with relatives on another colony. I didn’t see much of him after that. Too big an age gap to share classes at the Academy. We’ve… never really discussed anything. I wasn’t sure how much he remembered. Didn’t want to… reopen old wounds.”

He could still see him. Seven years old and skeletal, curled into a ball in the dark and sobbing for his parents. Silently.

“When they came to take him away,” Jim murmured, “we thought it was a trick, at first. We couldn’t believe… the cavalry had finally arrived. Just barely too late. He wouldn’t let go of me and I wouldn’t let them near him, until my father convinced me they were the real thing. Until they told him where they’d be taking him and he recognized the names. …I was afraid for him, when I saw he’d been assigned to this ship. Afraid seeing me again might—conjure up old ghosts.”

"And yourself?"

"No, no, I… I told you, I’ve. Dealt with this. A long time ago."

"You thought he hadn’t?"

He shrugged. “I had no idea. I still don’t. He… I do think it’s worse, for him. Seeing him earlier, he…” Sighing, he dragged a hand down his face. “He was so young, I almost hoped he wouldn’t remember. I wasn’t even sure he’d been officially listed as a witness until I checked the database.”

"Well, maybe he _didn’t_ remember, until he saw him. You’d be surprised how much gets filed away to the back of the mind until we need it. Or until we’d like it to be gone.”

Jim smirked. “Psychology, Bones?”

McCoy smirked right back. “Strictly off the record.”

“I don’t know, Doctor, I think you could make a decent living in the more patient-oriented psychiatric fields.”

“Jim, there’s a list of people who wouldn’t end a session with me either drunk or tryin’ to kill me, and you’re about half of it.”

Jim quirked an eyebrow. “‘About’?”

"Well.” McCoy appeared to consider the matter. “A _third_. Another third would roll her eyes and tell me I’m just as bad as her mother.”

"And the other?"

"Finds both drinking and violence highly illogical."

"Of course."

McCoy’s smile faded. “We’re gettin’ off topic, Jim. We can stay that way if you’d rather.”

Jim pulled a face. “Oh, I’d… certainly rather. But it wouldn’t do much good.”

"Go on, then."

He exhaled shakily, folding his hands on the desk and slowly lowering his head to rest on them. “I wanted to kill him, Bones,” he whispered.

"Well, can’t say I _blame_ you.”

"You’re the one who said—"

"I can’t blame you for _wanting_ it. Doesn’t mean I think you should have gone out and _done_ it.”

Jim stared at nothing, eyes blurring at the lack of focus. He felt empty. “I don’t know if I’ll ever convince myself I didn’t deliberately let him take that shot.”

"Well, convince _me_.”

"How?"

"You are James T. Kirk, yes?"

"Bones—"

"Well, are you?"

“ _Yes_ ,” he snapped.

McCoy hummed, pure smug satisfaction. “All right, I’m convinced.”

Jim snorted. “Makes one of us.”

"Jim— _listen_ to me. You’re not the type to kill a man in cold blood.”

Jim raised his head up from the table. It made him dizzy, but he managed to focus on Bones. He glared. “A man like Kodos?”

"I’ve seen you run yourself ragged tryin’ to _save_ people who’d just as soon see you on an _autopsy_ table,” Bones insisted.

Both hands tightening into fists, Jim leaned over the table and spoke quickly and quietly, never once breaking eye contact. “He had his militia round us up from our homes, from the streets, from whatever we were doing and whoever we were with, and march us down to these five or six gated yards, off one of the courthouses. They crammed hundreds of us into each one and then we were shown a live video feed of Kodos, reading out a proclamation. Very calm. Completely matter-of-fact. Announcing that we had been selected to die, so that the _more valued members_ of the colony might live. When I took Riley… when we were out… I looked back. It was empty. Hundreds of people, just— _gone_ , Bones. My neighbors. My _friends_. Riley’s _parents_. Hundreds more gone from the next yard over. No bodies. Four _thousand_ people dead and nothing to _bury_.”

His eyes were burning. He sat back and blinked until they stopped. “I knew it was him, the second I stepped into his quarters, Bones, I could _feel_ it, but I couldn’t—I convinced myself I still wasn’t sure, after all _that_ , because I didn’t— _want_ it to be him, I didn’t want him on my _ship_ , I didn’t want to be standing… alone, in a room with him; I… I felt thirteen years old again.” He swallowed. “I was terrified. I was _furious_. I wanted him _dead_.”

"…You’d do well to tell Riley that,” McCoy said quietly. “When I left sickbay he was convinced he’d just thrown out his career."

The sudden shift threw him. It took a moment to grasp what McCoy was even saying. “He—He thinks I’d—what, _report_ him? Drop him off somewhere and leave him?”

"It’s not what he thinks you’d do, Jim, it’s what he thinks he _deserves_.”

Jim frowned. “I’ll… have to have a talk with him.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

"He was a child."

"Mmhm."

"He can’t be blamed for emotions brought on by the trauma of something like that suddenly… resurfacing…"

"He certainly can’t."

“You…” Jim glowered. “You’re a clever bastard.”

In a movement so quick it was almost a flinch, McCoy shifted back in his chair, mouth twisted into a tight smile. Jim wondered if he’d crossed some sort of line, but before he could apologize, the doctor seemed to snap out of it. “I try,” he said, with a soft laugh. “Glad _somebody_ notices.”

Jim would not be so easily swayed. “He didn’t actually _kill_ the man.”

"Neither did you,” McCoy said sharply. “ _Lenore_ did. Or if you want to go the poetic route, he killed himself.”

"He—what?"

"He raised a daughter on lies and selfish cowardice and the high _drama_ of the theatre, and didn’t expect her to get a few funny ideas about _ethics_? Bad enough—” McCoy stopped, and shook his head. “ _Horrible_ enough—what he did on Tarsus IV, he had to go and ruin his own _kid’s_ life on top of it. Seems only right he’d die by her hand. …Going by the most morbid definition of ‘right’ in the books.”

"…Well.” Jim tilted his head to one side, considering. “Let’s… _hope_ , for her sake, she agrees with you one day.”

"Hm."

"…I, ah… told you earlier, to make me eat tomorrow morning."

"Too late to take it back, Jim."

"No, I… was just going to say, you… might literally have to _make_ me, Bones. And I can’t—guarantee it’ll be in my stomach for long.”

McCoy crossed his arms. “Got a lot of experience with this ‘isolated incident,’ do you?”

“ _Yes_.” Jim ground his teeth together. “From _before_ I…” Before he could open a full cupboard without stopping to stare. Before his body readjusted to digesting in one day what he might have given it over the course of a good week. Before a cramped stomach and clawing guilt stopped leaving him with his head in the toilet after a meal.

Six months on, they’d gone out for ice cream. Because they _could_. Because it was _there_. Ice cream had felt like a lifetime ago, and the concept of eating something because it _tasted_ _good_ , the idea of food as a _treat_ , wouldn’t fall back into place in his brain, and he’d eaten a sundae because his parents put it in front of him and he felt terrible about the lump in his throat until he saw his father turn his head away to wipe his eyes.

All of this died on his tongue. The memories were there but they refused to coalesce into words, an explanation, and if he couldn’t even say it to _Bones_ —

“…Right.” McCoy sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Right. Sorry. I should’ve…”

“It’s fine,” Jim murmured, staring at nothing again. He felt like he was floating away. Like there was nothing weighing him down to his body and he was drifting back to those deadly silent hours in the aftermath of the Federation’s response, when no one had known what to say so most had said nothing, when he’d watched them take Riley safely away and then collapsed in on himself in the absence of anyone who needed him not to.

Quiet dark hours in a small room on a spacecraft, shaking between his parents.

"Dad got them to grant him leave on Earth,” he heard himself say. “We went back with one of the relief ships. And news… spread fast. Within a week there were… stories… Rumors. I’m sure they were true, whether or not the people telling them knew it."

"What kind of rumors, Jim?" McCoy’s voice, gentle as it suddenly was, shattered the past around him. He shook his head and nearly jumped as his own quarters came into sharp focus.

He sucked in a breath. “They, uh—they said people were taking their new rations, and…”

On the desk, McCoy’s hand clenched into a fist. “Oh, Christ Almighty.”

"Eating for a day, or two, or three, and—"

"And dropping dead."

"…Yes. I couldn’t… All I could think was I—I hadn’t let the hunger kill me, and I wasn’t going to let the food do it."

"Oh _God_ , Jim…”

"I almost landed myself in the hospital. I _would_ have been there, but they were. Full. Of survivors whose immune systems had all but shut down, people whose bodies physically couldn’t handle the amount of food they needed to survive, people on suicide watch… We could afford home medical care, so we—stayed out of the way. Not quite hospice but a little more than house calls. My parents never pretended they were fine, and that—helped. I didn’t feel like a—like a _child_.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Eventually, I. I moved _on_. I won’t say I’ve never _thought_ about it, or that it hasn’t… _affected_ my eating habits or my life, but by and large it’s _behind_ me. And it needs to _stay_ there. Dredging it all up with a therapist again…”

“As opposed to dredging it all up with me?”

Jim shook his head. “You’re not _examining_ me. You’re not psychoanalyzing me or demanding details or prescribing medication or meditation or putting on some sort of _professional_ _sympathy_ or—or asking me to… to tell you what all of it _means_ , what effect everything _specifically_ had, why I like some foods and avoid others and whether my weight being up or down means I’m _dreaming_ about it again—”

"All right, I’ve got the point.”

“Good.” Another breath. He felt like he was drowning. “I can’t forget… I can’t forget _standing_ there, in a crowd of friends and strangers and—and _people_ , and being told we weren’t _good enough_ to _live_.”

His mother hugged him as he went outside. They all pretended not to think this was a _bad_ thing, that his name had been called, but none of them guessed… Maybe he’d be put to work; maybe colonists who weren’t directly contributing to the economy or the market were being sent off-world. Maybe a lot of things that, however unpleasant, ended with them all going _home_. Doors slammed up and down the street and it didn’t occur to him until later, waking up in a cold sweat, that someone’s last words to a loved one might have been part of a fight.

“He barricaded himself up somewhere safe, somewhere he didn’t have to _look at us_ —”

There were far more shrieking children than protesting adults, unable to comprehend that defiance would do nothing, that there was no one to _argue_ with, and a woman near him sank to the ground and rocked back and forth and she was just close enough that under the screaming he could hear an unending background noise, _elsie elsie elsie thank god i sent her home thank god thank god elsie i’m so sorry mama loves you_ —

“—and he told us we had to _die_ because the others were _better_ , because they _deserved life_ more than we did, and I stood in a room with him and _God_ , Bones, I wanted to wrap my hands around his goddamn _throat_ , I wanted to shake him until that grotesque mockery he thought looked like _remorse_ slid off his face and he turned _blue_ , I wanted him _dead_ , I— _Bones_ , I was alone in a room with the man who decided my _life_ , _Riley’s_ life, _all_ our lives, were _worthless_ , and I wanted to lock the doors and hold a phaser right under his _chin_ until he told me _every. single. reason. why_. I wanted to—I—God help me, Bones, if she hadn’t walked in, I don’t know _what_ I would have—”

“Jim, _Jim_ , breathe, look at me, take a breath—”

“I _can’t_!” he snarled, burying his head in his hands, clawing at his scalp until the physical pain started to overshadow everything else.

Dimly, he felt McCoy’s hand on his arm. “Come on, Jim,” the doctor was saying quietly. “Come on, just breathe. You’re all right.”

“I thought I’d walk back out and the ship would be empty, I thought—he’d— _Bones_ —I _thought_ —”

“I know, Jim. I know. But you need to stop talkin’ for just a minute and breathe for me, all right?”

Breathe? How could he breathe with three hundred bodies pressing close, jostling for space that wasn’t there, overwhelming heat choking against cold terror, ears ringing, desperate screams and calm echoes; _your execution is so ordered_ ; rooted to one spot can’t move can’t move can’t move—

“ _Jim._ ”

—and that small boy, as good as voiceless under the rest of them, but his eyes locked on Jim’s and the instant of mutual recognition was enough for a shift, enough to get him moving because someone else needed him to be, because if this boy had a chance _he was it_.

He didn’t have the strength to carry him.

His fingers clenched tight around an emaciated wrist, and seconds and breaths and two decades later he opened his eyes and croaked, “Sorry, Bones. I… knew that might be coming. Meant to… warn you.”

“Shut the hell up and _breathe_ , Captain,” Bones growled. “You got nothin’ to apologize for. Panic attacks don’t wait ‘til you’re _ready_.”

“All those… y-years of medical tr… training paid off, huh?”

“Jim, I swear to—”

“I’m — breathing — Doctor — I’m breathing. Is this — what you call — bedside manner?”

“Tactics, Captain, _tactics_. Doctors can be diplomats. No patient is the same. Some of you respond better to _aggression_.”

“Nn-not exactly the ideal gr-groundwork for diplomacy, but I f-follow…”

“Easy, Jim.”

“That wasn’t very aggressive.”

“I’ll stick a damn hypo in your neck if you don’t stop talking; how’s that?”

“Very convincing.” He looked around. “Am I on the floor?”

“You stood up a minute ago. I sat you back down.”

“Something wr—wrong with the chair?”

“I thought you might appreciate not falling out of it.”

“…Yes.”

Another breath, rattling and slow and deep enough to make his head spin. “Can I… I need to—not… be… on the ground.” _dead grass and dry dirt under his hands because someone bumped into him and they apologized and ten minutes later they’re dead; huddled behind boxes and under coats in the closet of the spare room, holding his breath, one hand over Kevin’s mouth because the front door opened and his parents aren’t due home for another hour_ —but the words stuck in his head and the air stuck in his throat and Bones seemed to get it anyway.

“All right. Look at me, Jim. I’m gonna help you up and get you to your bed. You don’t have to _promise_ y’won’t take a swing at me, but I’d appreciate it.”

The laugh was breathless and painful, but it helped. “I won’t hit you, Bones.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

The room didn’t spin as much as it did fade in and out, lights and colors pulsing. But there was a hand under his arm and he clutched tightly at what felt like a sleeve, and somehow they made it the endless few feet to the bed.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Get like this, and… any—almost anything can set me off, drop me back into it…”

“It’s all right, Jim.” McCoy’s voice was quiet, but not in the way Jim had always dreaded as a teenager when the doctors smiled and told him he was doing just fine, as a cadet when an instructor took him aside and asked him to review the material for next week’s class and request an alternative assignment if he found it _upsetting_ , as an ensign being assured that _everyone_ was put through the same mental and physical check-ups and if command was a little more strict about how often he reported for his it was only because they saw a lot of _promise_ in him. Not the senseless encouragement he had come to reluctantly admit he’d probably needed, not the _pity_ that marred what would have otherwise been a welcome if unnecessary gesture, not the assumption that he couldn’t handle a frank discussion. This was simple respect, for a subject that warranted it.

That, and Jim would probably have had to fire anyone who claimed to be a medical professional and couldn’t work out that his head was currently throbbing.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“No. …I _mean_ that, I’m not… It used to. When I was younger. I’d have dreams and wake up… back there. Or someone would—say something, and it would… I worked through it. It hasn’t happened like—like _this_ in years.”

“Like this?”

He shrugged. “Everyone has nightmares, Bones.”

“Mm. Fair enough. …You waitin’ for me to tell you I still won’t assign you therapy?”

“It’ll make it _worse_ ,” Jim said firmly—or tried to. The crack in his voice was both annoying and potentially helpful.

McCoy heaved a deep sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and looking unhappy. “Damn it.”

“Bones?”

“ _Fine_. You’re checking in with me every two hours and if I tell you to get off the bridge you _get off the bridge_ , and if we have to sit here through the entire alpha shift before you finish breakfast, that’s what we’ll do. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Jim promised, saluting weakly. He managed a smile. It faded quickly and he turned to stare at the floor. “…Thank you, Bones.”

A hand came to rest on his back. “’Any time’ would sound a little _cruel_ , but you’re welcome.”


End file.
